


Codex Addenda

by a_sparrows_fall



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-01 04:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13990038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall/pseuds/a_sparrows_fall
Summary: Just a collection of Witcher ficlets that were originally posted on Tumblr, cross-posted here for easy access.





	1. Drabble: Figure of Speech

“Ah, our stalwart little group. We were an odd company, weren’t we? As the phrase goes,” Dandelion raises his stein, toasting, “‘Misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows.’”

Geralt chokes on his Viziman Champion.

“What’d I say?” asks Dandelion, while Regis, head bowed, tells Geralt in a small voice, “It’s a turn of phrase, it means 'unlikely friends.’”

“Wait.” Noticing the angle of Regis’s arm, Dandelion leans across the table, confirming: the vampire’s hand is resting on the witcher’s knee.

“I KNEW IT!”

“Dandelion–” Geralt starts, voice reedy from the beer. Regis finishes for him.

“–Fuck off,” he says merrily. 


	2. Ficlet: Give us this day our daily cue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For prompt: "second ask meme for character: regis, of course, because im hot spicy garbage. possible specificity you can take or leave: geralt describing how regis moves/looks while doing a mundane task, like cleaning dishes or picking herbs."

The soft scraping hiss of a quill tip against parchment draws his attention, and he peers past the book he stopped reading minutes ago, exulting in the chance to observe Regis surreptitiously; it is exactly as difficult as you’d imagine to catch a vampire with his guard down, to simply watch him while his attention is occupied elsewhere.

He thought the journaling would stop once they settled somewhere. He was wrong.

Regis’s hands move swiftly and with care, his expression shifting in the most minute ways as he moves through phrase after phrase, gracing each word with a moment of intimacy as he commits it to the page.

He wonders how long Regis has been recording his daily activities, and he’s suddenly struck by the idea that even an inconsistent documentation of his life would require enough volumes to fill a small library.

He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought, and Regis catches the motion.

“Geralt of Rivia,” he says, eyes still locked on the blank book before him, “What do you think you’re doing?” There’s a hint of sweet admonition in his tone, as there always is when he uses Geralt’s full name.

“Nothing.” The witcher shrugs, then gives up the game. “Watching.”

“What, praytell?”

“Just you.”

Regis opens his mouth, no doubt about to launch into a smart remark.

But whatever he was going to say is lost to silence as his mouth curls up at the corners, forming a pleased little smile, and he continues writing.


	3. Ficlet: This is war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoltan asks Ciri's help for revenge on Dandelion.

“Zoltan!” She can barely control her laughter. “Why? Just because he beat you?”

“Yes. And also because he’s a prat.”

Ciri raises a skeptical eyebrow: this is not new information. The dwarf notes that her unimpressed face is remarkably Geralt-like. She learned from the best, he supposes.

He shrugs, undaunted. “Because it’s a laugh. An’ because I reckon you cannae find someone else who’ll yell as prettily as he does in the whole of Novigrad. Shh, lass, here ‘e comes.”

As the door to the tavern opens, Ciri blinks out of sight. Zoltan turns away, taking a long swig on his ale, trying to mask his guilty expression with the lip of the stein.

Dandelion is whistling as he walks by. Whistling! The rotter. Well, nobody takes a dwarf’s best Gwent cards and stays that smug for long.

He hears the familiar pop of Ciri reappearing and turns back. She grabs Dandelion’s shoulder roughly, and shoves the point of a carrot she must’ve nicked from the kitchens into his back.

“Move and it’s over,” she growls from behind the bard. “Your Seigemaster Foltest card or your life!”

As predicted, Dandelion screams, his range putting many a soprano to shame. He shoots his hands into the air. “Oh my gods, _pleasedon’thurtme_.”

But by then Zoltan is already slamming his fist into the table repeatedly, tears streaming down his face, and Ciri has doubled over, nearly falling into the railing of the staircase.

“Very funny,” Dandelion says, taking a deep restorative breath.

“You face!” squeals Ciri, still cackling. “How could you have possibly thought that was really happening?”

“For your information,” he huffs, “I happen to have many a nemesis who would do just such a thing.”

“Dandelion,” she says, her frank tone somewhat undercut by giggles, “How in the world can you have more than one nemesis?”

“Oh, Ciri, trust me,” the bard tells her, his expression grave. “You don’t want to know.”


	4. Ficlet: Just Stay Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is hurt. Regis attempts to help.

“What were you _thinking?_ ”

His sigh lands like something slamming into the bottom of a crater after a long fall.

Which is appropriate, given that that’s what it looks like happened to his beloved.

Geralt’s a mass of pink and purple and red; the ratio of uninjured to injured parts is extremely poor indeed.

“I was thinking I’m a witcher.” His voice is dry, sticking to his throat.

“You’re irretrievably stupid, is what you are.”

Regis lies down, folding himself into the empty space on the bed underneath the curve of the witcher’s arm.

“And very, very dear to me,” he adds, words very small and said almost entirely into the sheets.

Geralt smiles surprisingly dreamily—it’s probably the painkillers at work.

“At least you’re not bleeding on the bed anymore,” Regis says. He scowls. “No jokes of a sanguine nature.”

“Wasn’t gonna. Laughing hurts too much, anyway.”

He wants badly to touch Geralt somewhere, anywhere at all, but the doctor in him can see all the ways that would do more harm than good, and it momentarily rekindles his anger.

“If you ever do this again,” he begins threateningly, “I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” The words are slurred and Geralt’s eyes are falling shut; sleep seems to be imminent. Good. As it should be.

Regis heaves another massive sigh. “I’ll patch you up, make you well,” he confesses.

But Geralt doesn’t hear it; his breathing has gone deep and even, his body no longer tensing in pain.

“Every time,” he tells the witcher’s sleeping form. “Always.”


	5. Drabble: Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In regards to one Gaunter O'Dimm.

He doesn’t recognize the glyph, which is troubling. He’d never claim proficiency in all the languages this world has ever known. Still, owing to his longevity he’s versed in most written communication. 

This, however, is completely alien to his eyes. 

“What was the moniker he gave you again?” 

“Gaunter O’Dimm,” Geralt growls. “Also known as Master—”

“—Mirror,” Regis finishes, recalling. 

He brushes a finger over the vermilion gash of the unnaturally raw scar, feeling it hum with magic. Geralt flinches; Regis grimaces in return.

“Yes, well. I can safely say that I detest this individual. For a _number_ of reasons.”


	6. Ficlet: Still fighting it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt & Ciri at Kaer Morhen.

He’s got her in his arms, scooped up, all warm dead-weight little limbs and wet sparrow smell and quick-quick-quick heartbeat.

He grouses to her sometimes about being her one man palanquin, but only because she likes telling him off when he says it.

She’s still in her sleep when he holds her, too: no nightmares.

It’s the best part of his day.

She does startle, though, this time, as he takes her up the stairs to her room. She blinks, not frantic but bleary-eyed, her hair rubbing against his shoulder as she shakes her head, clearing the sleep from it, blinking her surroundings into clarity.

Her dreams are veiled to him, but he has a glimpse at them when she says suddenly, “I’m _not_ a princess, Geralt.”

Fingers curling demandingly around the edge of his collar, she shuts her eyes again, but continues mumbling into shirt, not even half awake. “I’m not, I’m not. Don’t make me be one, _please_.”

She’s like him at the corners, at the edges, in learned pirouettes and dodges, in bruises and skinned knees, and yes, sometimes in mischievous grins and barked laughter.

But the heart of her is so much different. So much better, brighter. So very much her own.

“Okay, witcher girl,” he says, maybe holding her a little tighter. “I won’t.” 


End file.
